


Untraditionally, Yours.

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo is oblivious right up until the moment where he isn't, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarf Courting, Dwori - Freeform, Kili and Fili are basically adorable assholes, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Ori is a brave little shit, Slash, Smut, Thorin is grumpy, bagginshield, dwarvish traditions/culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd learned many things in their quest to regain Erebor. And while the list itself was exhaustive, some of the highlights go as follows...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: This is my first time dipping my toes into Tolkien's universe, so this is more of an experiment than anything. I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The main pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) with a secondary pairing of Bagginshield (Thorin/Bilbo) for flavour.
> 
> Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug' if you squint. This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, minor mention of body image issues, age difference, discussion of injuries. Timeline? What timeline? Characters being adorable little shits, dwarvish courting rituals, slash, and – oh yeah – smut.

He'd learned many things in their quest to regain Erebor. And while the list itself was exhaustive, some of the highlights go as follows: the first was that Thorin had a truly  _terrible_  sense of direction. King under the Mountain or not, he swore the man had no idea how to even  _use_ a bloody map, let alone navigate cross country. Honestly, how does one even get lost in a place as small as the Shire?!

Second, (and this was something he was still uncertain of) he wasn't sure if the elves were  _all_ a bunch of pointy-eared gits or if it was just the one with the war-moose and the obvious love affair with his own reflection.  _Pah._ Either way, he still wasn't fond of them. They were mischievous, secretive, _beardless_ , and thought way too much of themselves, if you were askin' his opinion.

Third, having a wizard in your company was both the best  _and_  worst business proposition his elder brother had ever made. Because despite their habit of turning up just in the nick of time, they also had an annoying tendency to toddle off for days – even weeks at a time. Personally, he was half convinced that most of their problems could've been just as easily avoided if the batty old grey beard wasn't trying to be in four different places at once. (Not that he'd shared his whereabouts mind you, but eh, he had eyes.)

And lastly, was that Hobbits, despite their size, were not to be underestimated, especially when it came to priceless gems and their undying affection for food and drink. After all, the ability out-feast a dwarf, especially one the size of Bombur, was a feat deserving of admiration – if not outright concern. In fact, despite Bilbo's less than gracious beginnings, he was certain that if Hobbit-kind ever decided to vey the fairer races for dominion over Middle Earth, a vast majority of his gold would probably find its way into the Shire's betting pots.

But quite frankly,  _nothing_  had prepared him for the way Ori looked, shucked down to his small clothes, squirming against the linens as he traced a line down the length of the lad's inner thigh with his tongue.

There was no denying he had the youngling right where he wanted him. After months of chasing, months of awkward exchanges and brief moments alone – the lad was  _finally_  his. They'd fought together, bled together, nearly  _died_ together. Standing side by side in the final battle until rocks ran red and the war, if it was ever that, was over.

_The sons of Durin had returned to Erebor._

He supposed the fact that it  _still_  smelt of mildew and dragon dung seemed pretty inconsequential in the scheme of things. Pungent as it was, it too would fade. Already dwarves from every corner of Middle Earth – from the Iron Hills to the lowlands bordering Moria – were making their presence known. Some traveled in hopes of prospects, others to offer their allegiance, pledging their service to Thorin, son of Thrain, as the reality of the task ahead loomed, more foreboding than any Dragon.

Fortunately, Dis was already working wonders, bustling about, keeping an entire squadron of housekeepers, masons, blacksmiths, and architects in line as they planned out the next three decades of restorations. Thorin basically just nodded a lot, grumbling about Elvish grain prices and related politics until Bilbo dragged him off, Mahal knows where.

In fact, it soon became a habit. They explored the deep dark together – from cavern to great hall – until even the King under the bloody mountain forgot himself. They left footprints in the dust. Some of which were not found until months later, when the cleaners and stone masons moved into new sections – coincidentally, the rumour mill in the kingdom was quite extensive.

They had Fili and Kili to blame for the majority of it, no doubt.  _Nosey little twats._

His attention was drawn back to the present when he realized that Ori was holding onto the edge of his last layer, fisting the hem of his sweater almost bashfully. The far edge barely covered the long, partly-healed slice that stood out from collarbone to hip, a shallow yet enticing reminder of the final battle. The pinkness of the new flesh was stark against the lad's pale skin, a ruddy mixture of pale-dusk and ginger roots. His touch was light as he ran a nail, blunt and gentle, down the length of it. He was unable to hold back a grin when the boy's spine arced, hips snapping up like a bow-string as he thumbed the sensitive line.

He couldn't dampen the blush of pride as he remembered how, despite the pain, Ori had lashed out, sinking his axe deep into the spine of the orc that'd wounded him. Screaming his defiance as the horrid thing had gurgled, black blood frothing up until Ori kicked it away, pulling his axe free just in time as the next group charged towards them.

Bias aside, he reckoned it only made the lad look that much more desirable. He'd had his first real blood that day, proving beyond any doubt, that youth and inexperience were no excuse for a lack of bravery.

It'd taken him  _weeks_  to get the lad comfortable with the idea of hefting anything other than that damn slingshot. So naturally, seeing the complete opposite had been enough to give him pause. The lad wasn't a natural fighter, he was too kind for that, too gentle. But he'd proven that much like his eldest brother, when called upon, what he lacked in skill was often made up with pure determination.

"Don't hide yourself lad," he hummed, lingering on the puffy-red skin for a smattering of beats before he carried on, getting distracted by the shallow dips that stood out above each hipbone. Ori just quivered, a rumpled mess of excitement, anticipation, uncertainty, and ginger-red fuzz.

Caught, the dwarf's blush only deepened.

"Oh! I don't- I'm, I just-"

"Then what is it?" he rumbled, getting the general idea as Ori wriggled under his hold, the whisper of his hardness dampening his small clothes -  _straining_. His excitement already pearling along his-

His closed his eyes.  _Mahal preserve him._

The sight alone was likely to be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Ori choked against his lips, mewling with indignant pleasure when he nipped his way inside. But even then, his mind was racing. He'd played this moment over a thousand times; he'd considered every option, every angle. And yet, now that he had him, he was suddenly at a loss as to what he wanted to do first.

Luckily for him, Ori seemed to have no such qualms.

Because before he could make up his mind, the lad reared up, pushing him back against the headboard until he had a lap full of squirmy skin and ample hips. The lad was quick to press his advantage too, with his strong legs firming around his waist. It pressed their cocks flush together – the burn enough to set them both groaning, separated by less than a millimeter of rough-spun cloth apiece.

_Mahal! He was going to-_

Ori arched against him, pressing open mouth kisses across the ruined curve of his ear, gentling the scar tissue before an eager tongue flicked against a silver stud. He jerked, over stimulated as the youngling had the nerve to snuffle a laugh into the base of his throat.

"I meant what I said Mister Dwalin, I mean to know you,  _all_  of you," Ori thrummed, voice pleasantly rough, scratchy around the edges in the way youths were often prone to as he combed his fingers through his beard. And quite suddenly, Ori's voice wasn't the only one in danger of breaking.

"Dwalin," he corrected. "No mister, not for you," he growled, cursing Dori and his fondness for manners as his cock jumped at the idea. Reminding him that he certainly wouldn't be opposed to the lad calling him that when they were-

Heat flushed across his cheeks.

He surged forward, upsetting Ori's perch and sending him tumbling, arse over tea kettle. He took him down into the sheets with a rumbling snarl - throat deep and feral. Swallowing the taste of the lad's startled squawk, claiming his mouth until the warm tartness of arousal flooded back.

He rolled Ori beneath him, pressing him down into the mattress until the linens bunched up around him. He leaned, down, inhaling as Ori murmured something, something about wanting to _touch_  before nimble hands started running down his sides. He held back on voicing his pleasure as the sharp points of Ori's nails raked across his skin, contenting himself with a bit of exploring of his own as he nipped at the younger's neck, forcing him to bare it before he buried his face into the curve.

The youngling's scent was…  _well_ , it enough to drive him mad. All warmth and softness with just a hint of bitter salt, an edge that was tempered with far more gentle things than he figured he had the right to name.

"That's it lad, give it up," he urged. The springs on the bed –  _their bed_  – were groaning as Ori lost whatever composure he'd been hanging onto and thrust himself in to his waiting palm. He closed his hand around the man's prick with a grin, smug as the boy's lashes fluttered. Gasping aloud despite the fact that he'd done nothing more than give him a gentle squeeze.

Ori's eyes were slitted, face pleasure wrecked as the usually shy dwarf forgot himself. Ori was lost to the sensation as he thumbed the head of his cock, lingering on the tip until a blurt of pre-come slicked it, making the lad groan as he used it to wet the slide. The idea that he was Ori's first was almost staggering. That he'd chosen to give him this gift, that he'd-

A rare curse exploded from Ori's lips - enough to tear his attention away from the task at hand. It allowed him to watch as the lad's mouth dropped open, thrusting hard into the curl of his fist in a way that caused every roll of his hips to grind against his own hardness. It was a rough shot slide, slow but harsh in a way that sent his senses reeling.

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek till red flowed across his tongue.

"I-I want…I want-" Ori started, shuddering into the curve of his neck as he tweaked the younger's nipples, pulling such a sound from deep in the man's throat that he almost regretted his answer, wanting the lad all to himself.

"Take your pleasure then,  _have me_ ," he urged, overtaken by the sight as Ori moaned, thighs quivering as he pushed himself further into his lap until he was straddling him. The lad's pert arse rubbed against his breeches, still barely unlaced, now a vice around his aching cock as the youngling moved atop him,  _desperate_ , searching for friction.

He breathed hard, concentrating on stroking the man with a steady hand as Ori hit his stride, all awkward confidence and pleasure overwhelming that of uncertainty. It was charming, in an innocent sort of way; exactly the type of thing that had attracted him to the dwarf since the beginning.

"Oh, I- oh!"

He gritted his teeth, hips moving restlessly, unable to stop himself from meeting the lad's thrusts as the candlelight flickered. It sent shadows wisping across Ori's skin, strong yet delicate as darkness hid in the dips and hollows. It reminded him of the mountain at dusk, a singular point upon which the dying light fractured. It seemed fitting.

He hooked the lad in by the neck, bringing him down for a searing, open-mouthed kiss as Ori moaned into his lips. The muscles in the lad's arms were bunching, tensing as he strained towards his peak, almost overshadowing the small frown that puckered between his brows.

He swallowed,  _hard._  The picture of crumbling self-restraint as Ori whimpered, a mewl, a  _plead_. It was more a smattering of empty sounds than actual words. But he understood it all the same.  _More._

His palm, callous-ridden and gnarled, tightened around the lad's prick, trying and failing to reign himself in as he added a curve to the upstroke. Ori's back arced like a bowstring, nails sinking deep into the span of his shoulders. Because in all honesty, all he could think of was how pretty the youngling would look, pinned and squirming on his cock. Or how he would grab him, yanking him backwards, pulling and arranging him how he saw fit before he rode him to completion.

He wanted to hear the dwarf  _sing_  for it. He wanted to know what the man looked like, trapped underneath him, around him, fluttering like a butterfly with a pinned wing. He wanted to know what the man looked like split and snug around his cock, hole pink and slick with both of their release as he traced a thumb round the rim, delighting in the noises – the heady moans and delicious purrs of sound until both of them were-

His mouth went dry, swallowing the tail end of Ori's pleasured cry when he realized he'd been speaking aloud, giving voice to his thoughts as they came to him the entire time. But far from being embarrassed or put-off, Ori just gazed up at him, sloe-eyed and unfocused as red flushed high in his cheeks.  _Rapt_   _and all but undone._

 _Ori liked it,_  he realized. He blinked, half-shocked at his own loss of control as he ground himself up against the lad in earnest now. He  _liked_  hearing what he was going to do to him, what he wanted when-

He wasn't sure which of them were more surprised when their pleasure hit as one. And in all honesty, the entire mountain could have been on bloody _fire_  and he wouldn't have fucking cared.

So, yeah, apparently it really  _was_  love.

Balin was never going to let him hear the end of this.


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't known how to react when halfway through their journey, Ori had come over to him stuttering. He'd been bashful and far too endearing with his flushed cheeks and harried braids, murmuring something he didn't quite catch, something about top stitches and low quality felt, before the lad was pressing a cloth bundle into his arms.

He'd taken it, more out of reflex than anything, the action sudden and abrupt before Ori shifted, nervous, eyes darting from him, to the bundle and back to his feet in quick succession. The young dwarf had given him one last, meaningful look before skittering off like a frightened deer, hiding under Dori's confused but watchful wing as he just sat there, stunned, still trying to figure out what'd just happened.

_A courting gift._

The rest of the evening passed in something of a blur. Hell, if not for the bundle, safe in the deepest reaches of his pack, he might have been tempted to believe he'd imagined the entire thing. That it was some sort of fever-dream, a hallucination. And really, who could blame him?

After all, it wasn't often that the object of your affection beat  _you_  to the punch.

The boldness of the move was striking. Especially considering the lad's age, but it was a trait he found endearing.  _Brave_. The willingness to take a risk for something you desired was a heady thing, something to be respected no matter the mode or method. One did not have to be well versed in battle or warfare to be courageous. More often, it was the little things that showed ones true mettle – something which, since the beginning of the quest, Ori had shown in  _spades_.

He had no idea how long the lad had been pining for him. But he could guess. As loathe as he was to admit it, his feelings had started almost immediately, when they'd come face to face in that Hobbit hole all those months ago. The lad had been polite, but not overly so, clearly influenced in personality by _both_ of his elder brothers as he followed in their wake. Even amidst the revelry he'd been cheerful but introspective, observant, yet young. It was a strange mix for a youngling, especially one that hadn't grown into his beard yet.

There was a desire to prove himself, a compliant buzz of energy that fueled his thirst, a thirst to know – to experience –  _to understand_. It was one that had already granted him the position of scribe amongst their people. He was a favorite of his elder brother, Balin, and from what he'd heard, more a master himself than a pupil.

But frankly, he'd wanted the boy since the moment Dori and Fili had fished him out from under the pile sprawled across the Shireling's front door, because despite being half crushed by Bofur and Oin, he'd emerged out of the tangle laughing. He'd let Dori fuss over his clothes and set off in search of his lost cap as Fili and Kili had swarmed around him, knocking heads and talking animatedly. The hobbit had just looked on, nervous, quietly fuming as Bombur rolled across the length of the foyer, smearing mud across the carpet as he struggled to get to his feet.

He hadn't been able to explain it. And try as he might, the feeling hadn't faded. Perhaps it was the contrast he found attractive. Perhaps such a thing  _couldn't_  be explained, and if it could, certainly not by the likes of him. Only Mahal knows, he supposed.

He spent the evening deep in thought, keeping watch long into the night as the others slept.

And he wasn't the only one.

Because while Ori had been discrete about it, likely too shy to make such a gesture in front of the others, their burglar, who'd been sitting across from him around the fire nursing a mug of hot cider, had witnessed the event. In truth, he'd forgotten the creature was even there. At the time, he'd been too stunned to consider anything else. It wasn't until morning that the ramifications of that lack of attention were truly felt.

Good intentions or not, the hobbit, curious of the customs of dwarves, asked Bofur during breakfast the following morning. Digging into his bowl of grits and oatmeal with a relish only he seemed to share as half the conversation around the fire spluttered to a standstill.

_You could have heard a bloody pin drop._

Bilbo, bless his hairy soles, seemed oblivious to the entire affair. In fact, he used the pause to remark on a similar custom in the Shire which seemed to involve some sort of pastry and a whole bunch of rather indecent sounding uses for cream filling.

Thorin had just spluttered, glaring into his bowl and trying not to look like he wasn't closely following the conversation as Bombur perked up from his seat by the stew pot. Liege lord or not, he hadn't been able to hold back a snort, glad for the distraction from his own predicament as he watched Fili and Kili sidle onto the log on either side of the Halfling, no doubt intending to wring out all the details as he glared daggers from across the fire.

But considering that Ori had only blushed, smiling shyly whenever he chanced a look his way, he figured he could stomach the good natured ribbing - at least for a few hours.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days passed a lot like you might expect. Fili and Kili walked around, sporting evil grins, looking as though Durin's Day had come early, while his own brother had the gall to look  _delighted_. Dori and Nori, on the other hand, wore twin expressions of shock and dismay, often favoring him with a look that seemed to infer that this was somehow all  _his_  fault - bickering quietly until even Oin couldn't feign ignorance.

In fact, it wasn't long before Dori had worked himself up into full blown hysterics, "he's barely past a _hundred_  for Mahal's sake! Not even a full beard!" and so on. Nori, for his part, just glared a lot. They didn't approach him, but they certainly made their displeasure known.

He barely noticed. After all, he had more important things to think about, things like keeping them one step ahead of the Pale Orc and his wargs, and - more importantly - how in the  _seven ancient forges_ was he going to return the lad's suit?

Ori, the only one in the family who seemed to have more than a lick of sense, coped by making himself scarce. He took to shadowing the hobbit as they walked, inquiring after the Shire's history and the customs of its people – quill ever ready. Bilbo, still slightly mortified by the fallout from the morning before, was only too happy to oblige.

To make matters worse, he learned pretty damn quickly that when it came to courting, he had absolutely  _no_  idea what he was doing. He'd never been courted before. Not successfully at any rate and found himself woefully unprepared to set about securing the lad's affections. He wanted to answer the suit, but honestly, he had no idea where to even  _start._

He'd had his share of admirers over the years. Too many in his opinion, but few had ever piqued his interest, and fewer still had had the opportunity to get beyond the initial overtures. He'd been on the move for the majority of his life, following Thorin from his coming of age, to the fall of Erebor and beyond. All in all, it hadn't left much time for dabbling. Especially considering that the royal pain in his arse seemed prone to dying at  _every_  opportunity.

_Prat._

For example, as Balin was quick to point out, apparently not displaying one's courting gift was an indication to your prospective suitor that you'd respectfully declined. He was quite sure he'd never rooted through his pack so quickly.

He spent half the morning plucking at the knitted monstrosity despairingly; grumping and grumbling as he delicately arranged the felt across Grasper's edge, tying the tiny yarn fasteners around the hilt and securing them with the even  _smaller_ button that had been painstakingly sewed into the in-seam.

He shook his head.  _Knitted blade protectors._ He'd never _heard_  of such a thing.

And while they looked all sorts of ridiculous, the delighted beam he got from Ori that evening somehow made it all worthwhile, (as did the swift kick he delivered to each of the princeling's behinds the moment their guffaw's threatened to outpace the conversation).

Unoriginal as it sounded, he tried knitting first. In his defense, considering his lack of options and the lad's love for everything warm and fuzzy, it'd seemed only natural. He figured that at the very least Ori would appreciate the gesture.

The only flaw in his plan was that he knew  _shit all_  about knitting. He could stitch a wound, a rough suture or two in the field, but this? All long thick needles and a ball of yarn Balin had found Mahal knows where?  _Pah!_

You might as well have asked him to march right into Erebor alone, slathered in steak sauce and demand the fire drake's surrender.

He spent the better part of an evening huddled beside the fire, knitting needles  _click-click-clicking_ as something vaguely scarf shaped (though in this light it could be mistaken for a tea cozy) seemed to be gradually taking shape.

"Someone's in a mood," Bofur observed, chewing on the end of his pipe as Thorin stomped past. Thorin's expression withered as the black haired dwarf hummed cheerfully, whittling away at a piece of wood as the others set about preparing the evening meal. Indeed, Thorin seemed to be mirroring his irritation, spending the majority of the night pacing back and forth, muttering about hobbits and pastries, brooding as Bombur whipped up a thick stew and some coal-roasted taters.

He cursed as he missed a stitch, counting backwards as he realized he'd somehow managed to miss the last ten stitches in a row.  _Oh, for the love of-_

"Need a hand Dwalin?" Kili sing-songed, the picture of ill-begotten innocence as he flounced past, balancing a stack of bowls in one hand and his bow in the other.

He glared, briefly considering the merits of shoving one of the needles right up Kili's nose before he snorted and turned away. Dis was a force to be reckoned with and frankly, he didn't have a death wish.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the entire mess was chucked into the fire by night's end, a hideous tangle of split threads and uneven hems. He watched it burn moodily, staring into the flames as sparks danced across the yarn.

"Count your blessings," Balin pointed out, taking a seat beside him as the smell of singed wool rose, spitting fitfully until the fire flared and the entire thing went up in ashes.

"At least you don't have to learn how to bake," Balin continued, speaking loud enough that Thorin actually snarled, expression thunderous and slightly despairing as he stomped towards the edge of camp - his misery clear.

He hummed into the coarseness of his beard, half in agreement, surprised when he realized his irritation was only skin deep. He looked up from his cup – inadvertently catching the lad's eye as Ori twiddled his quill between his fingers, hemmed in by both his brothers at the far end of the fire.

His lips quirked upwards when he realized there was a splotch of ink smeared across the dwarf's lower lip. Absentminded and clearly deep in thought, the lad nibbled on the end of his quill, boots scuffing through the dirt until inspiration struck and he was scratching away in that crumpled old book of his all over again.

For once he was actually grateful for the lad's distraction, because suddenly all he could really think about was what it would feel like to be able to kiss it away. Fading the dark taint of ink with his tongue until flushing red took its place. And it would, of that he was certain – especially considering the lad's penchant for blushing.

He shook his head, blinking owlishly as the thought registered - dismissing it with a growl.

_He was getting bloody well soft._


	5. Chapter 5

It was only by the end of the third day of racking his brains for some way to return the lad's suit that he was forced to admit he just wasn't good at this. And as much as it galled him, he ended up cornering Balin later that day - practically  _begging_  as far as he was concerned – as he enlisted his brother's help.

They spent the evening secluded in each other's company, smoking far too much of the halfing's pipe weed and knocking heads in frustration. But before they could come to any sort of decision, then came Mirkwood, the river, Laketown and quite suddenly, the perfect gift practically fell into his lap.

He managed, despite the uproar and the severity of Kili's wounds, to gesture over to the boatman's eldest girl. All it took was a bit of coin, tempting her with a reward for an errand completed and not two hours later she returned, flushed in the face and triumphant, a cloth bundle hidden underneath her skirts.

The leather bindings smelt of salt and fish scales, but he figured it would have to do.

It wasn't until the party – the one the Master of Laketown decided to throw last minute in Thorin's honor – was in full swing and Dori and Nori suitably distracted, that he had a chance to pull Ori aside.

"I know a courting gift is more oft made than bought, but I figured with losing your quills, you'd rather not want to wait," he offered, voice rougher than he figured it ought to be as Ori blinked up at him, stunned.

"You-you're answering my suit?" he whispered, voice so quiet when set against the laughter in the other room he had to lean in a fraction just to hear. He inhaled on pure reflex, taking in the scent of ale and wet wool, clean sweat and a hint of something that was purely his own.  _Ori._

_He wondered what the lad would smell like when he had him. Would he-_

"O'course," he grunted, leaning up against the banister that led to the upper rooms, keeping a wary eye on the door, mindful that Dori would likely be exploding out of them at any moment. "Displayed your gift, didn't I?"

"I, well, I'd _hoped_ , but I never-I never expected that you'd-" Ori babbled, fingers trembling as he hurried to unwrap the bundle.

"I won't deny you beat me to the punch, lad," he rumbled, letting his voice deepen as a blush, pleased and heady, spread down Ori's neck.

"I had half a mind to court you the moment you fell through that hobbit hole," he added, covering his sudden nervousness with meaningless chatter, hardly aware of what he was saying as the cloth wrapping was pulled away and the lad's expression changed.

He knew he'd chosen right when Ori's breath caught.

An odd sort of pleasure thrummed through him as Ori ran a hand down one of the carved quills - a handsome redwood finished in a waterproof gloss - with something close to reverence. The runes, seared into the bindings of the thick leather journal were an addition he'd insisted upon when he'd charged Bard's daughter with her task.

"They're perfect," Ori breathed, thumbing the outline, reading the runes more by touch than sight until his realized what it was he was reading.

It was an oath, a promise written in the oldest form of dwarvish known to both warrior and scribe, runes that had been carved into stone by Mahal himself, eons before. It was pledge not simply of devotion and fealty, but of bonding, of two souls that stood in the presence of their creator and through his light became one.

That was what he offered.  _Himself._

There was an expression on the lad's face that he didn't recognize, something that could have been pleasure or perhaps even anguish if it wasn't for the fact that Ori was already up on his tip-toes, leaning in for a kiss. He caught the lad by the elbows when he lost balance, holding him close, yet still at an arm's length as he returned it - for propriety's sake if nothing else.

The kiss was feather light and barely there, but he swallowed hard all the same, chasing the lad's taste as Ori tugged him down, pulling at him fitfully until they were resting their foreheads together, breathing hard. The intimacy, even of so small a thing, was almost staggering.

He'd had to stop himself from leaning in and claiming him right then and there.

Propriety and decorum be damned.

* * *

With the madness of the journey now behind them, the battle won, their losses tallied, the kingdom reclaimed and everyone more or less intact, it'd seemed only right that when Ori knocked - a tray of mugs clutched in his ink stained fingers – he'd yanked the poor thing in by his collar. Mashing their lips together and kissing him for all he was worth as he poured  _months_ of want and desire into that single, heart-felt gesture.

Ori, to his credit, basically _climbed_  up the length of him, sending them crashing into the opposite wall, all thick thighs and grabby hands. They hit a snag when Ori tried to tug up his shirt and wrap his arms around his neck all at the same time. But he hardly noticed, because when one thing failed, Ori was quick to move on to another. Pressing kisses into his beard and nuzzling into him until his senses were alive with the sting of sharp teeth, smooth skin and chapped lips as Ori did his best to all but climb _inside_.

The gentle fuzz of burnished red was delectable as it rasped across his skin, a mess of placeless whiskers and soft down, indicative of a dwarf's first beard, as Ori rubbed himself across the length of him. His small, ink-stained fingers dug deep into the coarseness of his beard before he arched up and  _tugged_.

And loathe as he was to admit, he nearly spent himself before he got either of them undressed.

It wasn't until sometime later, when Ori had his blood up and he'd somehow managed to step on a shard of pottery in the middle of tossing him (nimble as he was) clear across the room and into his bed, that he realized the lad had brought him Mahal's heart tea. He nearly choked. Serving heart tea was a signal by one suitor to the other that they accepted their suitors claim and mirrored it, wishing for the courtship to be over and the consummation to begin. It was a tradition as deeply ingrained as a miner's pick was to iron-ore, and they'd blood well  _skipped_ it.

Not only that, but it was traditionally served by the second party, the _answering_  party.

Apparently Ori had gotten tired of waiting.

_Daring little thing, his lad._

* * *

A fortnight after their joining ceremony, during a feast to celebrate the restoration of one of the great halls, Thorin presented Bilbo with a mangled looking pastry on a gilded plate. He'd murmured something about honor and intent and maybe even something about Hobbit courting customs as Bilbo's expression changed from confusion and outright shock to pleasure, and (oddly enough), a strangled sort of indignation.

Then, well, everything got a bit out of control, because despite the fact that Bilbo was still shouting about 'confounded dwarves!' and 'majestic, thick-headed idiots', he was also rather busy kissing the King senseless in front of the entire company and Grand Council to boot.

Thorin had looked confused, yet remarkably satisfied when the two of them had finally come up for air – blushing and smirking as the entire hall exploded in laughter and well-meant jeers. Instead, Thorin simply pulled the squirming Halfling firmly onto his lap, cracking a smile of his own as their burglar waved the pastry about like a war banner.

Indeed, Thorin looked rather pleased with himself, expression equal parts feral and disbelieving right up until the moment when Bilbo mashed his half of the pastry right into his royal face, before skittering off, laughing.

The King under the Mountain seemed shocked for a handful of beats, mouth opening and closing, blobs of cream dribbling down his beard, before suddenly, he too was leaping to his feet. Giving birth to a story that was likely to become legend as he bellowed, promising retribution in Khuzdul as the entire dining hall howled with laughter.

The king was hot on the hobbit's heels as Bilbo disappeared down the maze of stone halls. Thorin was wielding a dessert fork like a sword as he  _exploded_ through the wood paneled doors half a second later. Setting out on a chase which, he had little doubt, would eventually lead all the way to the royal bed chambers.

By that point everything was in an uproar. The council was spluttering, screeching about proper decorum and besmirching the King's dignity. Whereas Kili and Fili were in a heap under the table, laughing so hard they could scarcely draw breath. Ignoring the servants trying to ply them with mulled wine as a crowd began to gather.

And they weren't the only ones. Even Ori was leaning against him for support, shoulders shaking, peeking between his fingers as his burbling laugh rose and fell, a single strand in a vast, echoing chorus as the entire mountain seemed to laugh with them.

Bofur had fallen clear off the bench, big tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched his stomach. He had to roll quickly to the side to avoid getting squashed when Bombur's chair gave out underneath him, unable to take the strain when the weighty dwarf flailed, roaring with mirth as the rest of the company quickly followed.

Even Balin had succumbed, patting honeyed-ale and tears out of his beard as Oin and Gloin started a rousing (and now somewhat altered chorus) of the song they'd sung in the Shire – which now seemed to infer far more than was strictly appropriate about 'hobbit holes' and the 'King under the Mountain'. But by that point, even the Grand Council was too distracted to notice. Especially when Fili and Kili started dancing across the tables, sending salted pork and fried taters flying in all directions - the entire hall ringing with the sound of Dwarvish laughter for the first time in decades.

He looked down, chuckling; chin ghosting across the top of his One's head as the Great Hall exploded into a milling sea of chaos – happy chaos – but chaos nonetheless. He shook his head, content to pull Ori further into his lap as the lad's marriage braid, the same one he'd tied closed with gold and silver only a few weeks before, tinkled merrily. Unable to shake the feeling that everything had come surprisingly, no,  _marvelously_ full circle.


End file.
